The first thing the following morning, Michael went out with eagerness to find the coffin-maker's shop.

He felt the urgency of the call; for though he cared nothing for the cost of the advertisement; he worried about all the other desperate, obscure-newspaper-reading, Irish boys with red hair and blue eyes and the initials M.M., who might find its invitation equally appealing.

Upon first seeing the grim carpenter's shop, Michael almost supposed he had gone to the wrong address. With boarded windows, a sign that looked to have been left unpainted for years, and a distinct lack of people around, the place did an excellent impression of a business that was no longer in operation.

The cobwebs and shadows also made it rather ghoulish.

But the address on the sign matched that of the ad. And when Michael approached the door, knees shaking, and gave it a hesitant tap, it flew open quite readily.

It must have been open after all.

Behind the now-open door towered a pale, sickly figure; grim faced and dressed all in black.

Thin, bony, with dark-ringed eyes and hollowed cheekbones; framed as he was in the doorway, Michael was struck by how much he resembled a corpse in a coffin himself.

He also would have run away, had the figure not spoken first.

"Ah," he said in a flat, impatient voice. "You must be the first applicant. Do come in. —And quickly, if you would be so kind."

He had an English accent, Michael recognized, though he had little more time to analyze it, as he was being half-dragged into the shadowy front room.

A table stood in the midst of the gloom, set meticulously with a white tablecloth, and tea and chairs for two.

The sight gave Michael the disquieting feeling that his presence had been much expected.

"Have a seat," the Tall Man invited, claiming his own with movements that reminded Michael of a long-legged spider—awkward, yet strangely elegant.

Michael eyed the table uneasily.

This all seemed odd to him, and the sense of not-rightness gave him a queasy feeling in his stomach. The recent memory of the dark things he had seen came back to him with a shudder.

But, he reminded himself, Dad had to have sent me here! Right? An ad so perfect could'nae have come blowin' me way by chance!

The Tall Man had begun to quirk an impatient eyebrow at him.

Uncertainly, Michael sat.

"Would you care for some tea?" the man offered with stiff politeness.

Feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Michael politely declined.

The man raised his eyebrow sharply once more, as though he had just spoken sacrilege, and then proceeded to serve himself.

"Very well," he said, even more stiffly (and Michael hoped with horror that the rejection of the tea wasn't going to affect his suitability in the man's eyes), "Let us get on with the interview, shall we? My name is Mr. Mallory. I make my living dealing with the fates of the dead. Normally I work alone in the dark; however, recent events have transpired that make assistance almost seem necessary."

That's certainly a dramatic way of describin' bein' a coffin maker, Michael thought, again with uncertainty.

But this had come from his father. Right?

"My assistance, sir?" he said out loud.

"We shall see about that," Mr. Mallory replied, "once we continue the interview. Now, tell me," he lifted a sheet of paper with one spidery hand and peered at it, "What are your name and age?"

"Michael MacBranain, sir," he said as quickly and with as much professionalism as he could, "I am sixteen years old!"

Mr. Mallory nodded without looking up, as though these were expected answers.

He went on to ask him a series of the usual interview questions: parent's names, where he came from, previous jobs, fear of death, aversion to blood or evil spirits...?

"Oh, wait, scratch those last three; they weren't supposed to be on here," Mr. Mallory said before Michael had a chance to reply.

Michael observed that the man's accent and word choice spoke of a well-educated man; and his clothing, though not dandy-like, were those of a well-groomed individual. His posture was stiff and cool. It struck Michael as reminiscent of a cat stiffening in a child's arms: a man holding everything around him at a distance.

His eyes were dark and fiery, piercing everything he looked at with a sharp, intelligent gaze. The rest of his face seemed rather bored.

Seeming satisfied with what Michael had to say for himself, Mr. Mallory put the paper aside without looking at him.

"There now, with that out of the way, have you any questions of your own?"

"Several, actu—"

"Excellent!" he banged a bony fist against the table, and then proceeded to speak at a mile a minute saying: "Well then, Mr. MacBranain, you seem more than qualified to fill the role I have in mind; and as I am short on and am in fact attempting to buy myself time, I would declare you to be the perfect candidate for the position and now offer you my hand to shake."

Michael leaned back from the now-eager hand that was being thrust in his direction.

"Here now," he said, eyeing the hand with suspicion. He may have been a naive and superstitious creature, but there was only so far he was willing to let a strong gust of wind carry him.

"There's somethin' rather shady about this business," he went on, standing up and stepping away, "Ye're awful suspicious for a coffin-maker. And what exactly is this job yer offerin' anyway? I don't feel ye explained that well enough for me likin'. As a matter o' fact, I don't think ye explained it at all! Who are ye Mr. Mallory? And what do ye want from me?"

A shadow fell across the man's face, and Michael could no longer see his eyes. But he could hear his voice, cool and controlled.

"Does what I want matter so much in comparison to what you want, Mr. MacBranain?"

"What?"

"I have it in my power to offer you more than enough to care for your family for years to come. That is your priority, is it not?"

Michael recoiled even further from the figure and his still-outstretched hand, heart thudding, mind racing.

"H-how did ye...?"

"Well?"

Michael swallowed hard. This man was terrifying and all he wanted to do was flee. The thought of the lifeless women filled him with dread of the dark things existing in New York, and what might be waiting for him behind that handshake. But…might it be the right thing to do with his family's welfare in the balance?

Apparently reading Michael's expression, Mr. Mallory withdrew his hand, and then drummed his fingers a couple times and sighed.

The shadow fell away as he leaned back in his seat. Gone was the look of boredom and feeling of aloof control; now replaced with a fidgety nervousness.

"I knew I should have just picked up a street urchin," he muttered. "More stupid and desperate." And then he put a hand to his forehead and whined, "Why do I even make promises? It's not healthy for a man in my position."

Abruptly the Tall Man had gone from dark and imposing to...rather pathetic, really. His sickly features gave him a tired look, almost like he was as ready to give up hope, as Michael had been earlier.

Was it an act? Or perhaps he truly was that tired and hopeless?

Well, whether he was or was not, he was now a thousand times as shady as he had ever been. Michael had turned and had his hand on the door, ready to flee, when the Tall Man leaped from his seat.

"Mr. MacBrainan! Mr. MacBranain, wait! Please!"

In one, desperate, sweeping motion, he was kneeling at Michael's feet (a painful looking display; the sight of his bony knees on the hardwood floor made the boy wince), gray-gloved hands gripping his wrist.

"Please, listen to me! All I need is to buy myself time. I made an enormous mistake and lives are in danger. If I don't act swiftly, my Employer may remove me from my position...and this job is all I have left!"

These words gave Michael pause, and his fear melted somewhat as he looked upon the man's desperation with shock and pity.

The idea that lives were in danger was enough to sway Michael's decision; but the fear in the man's eyes...the idea that one's employment is all that is left for them in the world...the feeling that lives—whole lives—depended on you...all these things hit so close to home, they made his chest ache.

Mr. Mallory must have sensed him softening because he loosened his grip on his wrist and hung his head.

"What is yer job ?" Michael inquired. "Why do y'need me?"

Mr. Mallory's sharp gaze snapped back to him.

"I suppose I have no choice but to give you the truth," he said with resignation.

Then he rose to full height, and his imposing aura seemed to return by sheer nature as his cadaverous form towered over the young man. Every shadow in the shop seemed to still as he explained:

"My name is Mr. Mortality. It is my job to collect the souls of the Dead and gather them to the Place of Judgment. And I need you to help me catch a spirit."

Michael was out the door and screaming in a second.

~~~

The pounding inside his chest was more than loud enough to drown out the carriages, trams, and bustle of the street; let alone the pounding of his own feet on the cobbled pavement outside.

He had no idea what had truly transpired in that coffin-maker's shop (which he was now rather sure was in fact not open for business), except that Mr. M was either a demon or a madman, and he wanted nothing to do with either.

He had to get home.

Was the Tall Man behind him?

He dared not to look.

He had to get home.

It took Michael only a short time of running to realize that home was not where he was going.

Slowing to a stagger and looking around, he realized that the silence was no longer caused by the pounding of his heart, but by the fact that there were no people around in the first place.

A new feeling of icy terror crept up his spine and into his chest as he realized that he had made a wrong turn somewhere, and was now in a place shadowed by the corpses of empty buildings—a place without humans, a place of darkness even in daylight.

Michael sat on the dirty pavement, once more clasping the rosary to his chest.

This, a small voice seemed to tell him, was a much better place to curl up and die.

And do ye deserve any better? He asked himself. Ye were ready to run home with that Man behind ye...ye might've led him to yer family! What kind of a protector are ye?

He thought of the prostitute without a heartbeat, and of his poor hard-working Mum and innocent younger siblings facing that madman, and a shudder ran through him.

And just how consistent would that be! It was his cowardice that had brought them here, after all—here, to America. It was he who caused his family to have to leave Ireland. And it was leaving Ireland that caused his father to fall ill. How different would it be to lead the Devil to their door?

Dad...I'm so sorry!

Tears streamed down his face, as the thoughts he had tried to bury in his heart since their arrival came bubbling to the surface and overflowed into anguished sobs.

I killed ye, didn't I? I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry...

The pain was like a lump of burning ice in his chest.

He sensed the shadows around him darkening along with his thoughts.

What kind of a son was he? Was it any wonder his father had sent him a demon when he'd asked for an angel?

I'm sorry...

Even your thoughts betray a cowardly pattern—always ready to flee at your loved ones’ expense.

I'm sorry...

Is it any wonder, Michael? the shadows seemed to whisper.

I'm sorry...

Is it, Michael?

I'm sorry...

Why would he forgive you, Michael?

I'm sorry...

You are the one who ruined everything, after all.

I'm sorry...

Why would he forgive you, Michael?

...

He would not.

The darkness seemed to wrap around him in a cold, yet comforting embrace.

It hurts, doesn’t it, Michael?

"Yes!" he sobbed aloud.

His mind felt cold and foggy, but then so did his heart. So painfully cold...

Your heart hurts...

...Let me make you numb...

A new, sharp stab of ice shot through Michael's breast, and he screamed.

"MICHAEL!"

A human voice broke through the darkness, quickening his senses like dawn light stirring a sleeping man.

Swift, long-legged steps echoed through the grave-like area like thunder.

"In the name of God, unhand that Living, Jack of Hearts!"

There was a sound like a sword swiping the air, and the shadows seemed to shriek into Michael's mind.

Then, suddenly, the sun was shining as bright as noon (most likely because it was noon), and Mr. Mortality towered over him like a majestic scarecrow in a fighting stance, black coat tails billowing with motion as he finished cutting an arc through the air with a dangerous-looking scythe.

And then there were feathers. Many black feathers.

So many black feathers, black as death...they filled his vision and echoed in his mind with thoughts of angels and mourning, and angels in mourning...his father cold and silent in his bed while all Heaven cried...a poisonous snowstorm in his chest...

Michael was vaguely aware of the Tall Man's shadow falling over him as he slipped into the darkness.